


Throwing Darts

by redwinehouse



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1960s, 1970s, 1980s, 2010s, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Crowley fraternizes with a musician, Humor, M/M, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Resolved Romantic Tension, Rock and Roll, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21773029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redwinehouse/pseuds/redwinehouse
Summary: ”Is that why we’re here, then? So you can teach me how to tempt?”Crowley nodded his chin towards the front of the tavern. Four men in their mid-twenties stood on a stage the size of a postage stamp, switching dials and tuning equipment.“Who are they?”“A rock and roll band.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)/David Bowie
Comments: 7
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I first explored the idea that Crowley is the demon rock musicians are haunted by in ["Breakfast at Strawberry Fields."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21721138) I wanted to expand on it.

**1965**

Crowley did not like Leeds. For one, it was too green. When it wasn’t green, it was a city that looked like it had crawled its way out of the 14th century. This was a problem since Crowley hated the 14th century and thanked Satan whenever a new year took him further from it. 

So far, the 1960s had been Crowley’s decade. It was a golden, tumultuous age of turbulent carnage — but the music was great. The people were great, too: flower children, civil rights activists, people who were _sick of it._ It was the best of times and the worst of times

He straightened his wire-framed sunglasses. He was tucked away in a dark corner of a dingy tavern, hands encased around an untouched pint of beer. Evil never rests and Crowley never drank while he worked.

“There you are,” Aziraphale said, wiggling into the vinyl booth. “I tried phoning the tavern several times but I think you may have given me the wrong number.”

“You could have just shown up,” Crowley dripped. “Found me by some unexplainable miracle.”

“But phone booths are so charming! You have to give humans credit where credit is due.”

Crowley did not think a phone in a box was at all impressive, but he did like the way it made his angel smile. So he shrugged.

“What is it you needed to see me about?”

This time, Crowley did take a sip of beer. “We need to break the Arrangement.”

The sparkle in Aziraphale’s blue eyes was snuffed out, but only for a moment. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Surely you want to spread your wiles.”

“No, you’re just a mess at temptations.”

Aziraphale looked shocked.

“Don’t act surprised.” Crowley slid Aziraphale the beer. “You were supposed to invent a new stomach bug and made penicillin.”

“One slip up doesn’t sully hundreds of years worth of work.”

Crowley scooted closer. “Do you really think someone such as yourself could have made the West End such a bloody tourist trap?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Or made sure no restaurant stays open past midnight?”

Aziraphale was sweating.

“Or guaranteed the tube was just small enough so that no amount of people could fit?” Crowley loomed over him.

“All right, all right!” Aziraphale conceded miserably. 

Crowley slid back to his side of the booth. “I’ve been cleaning up your mess for centuries and I already did the bare minimum.”

Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap. “Then I guess that’s it then.”

“No, it’s not _it_. You just have to learn how to tempt properly. It’ll be the Arrangement 2.0.”

”Is that why we’re here, then? So you can teach me how to tempt?”

Crowley nodded his chin towards the front of the tavern. Four men in their mid-twenties stood on a stage the size of a postage stamp, switching dials and tuning equipment.

“Who are they?”

“A rock and roll band.”

“They don’t look like a rock and roll band,” Aziraphale said, noting their pressed suits and straight neckties.

“Not for long. We’re going to break them up.” Crowley touched his fingertip to the side of the beer mug. Red ink seeped from the side of the glass. “His career takes off and they’re left in the dust. An old tempt and bless.”

“ _A tempt and bless?_ ” Aziraphale sipped the wine. It was good.

“Every time you mucked up a temptation, I was left with both the tempting _and_ the blessing. I found doing them at the same time was...easier.”

“So you’re lazy.”

Crowley tapped the side of his glasses. “Clever.”

“Fine. What do we need to do?”

The squeal of microphone feedback filled the tavern, making them jump.

“Ah,” the lead singer said. “We’re Davy Jones and the Lower Third and this is _The Habit of Leaving._ ”

The band began to play a crooning, soft rock song.

Aziraphale shivered. “You like this? He sounds—”

“Different?” 

“To put it mildly.”

“Like you know anything. You still listen to music on a gramophone.” Crowley watched thoughtfully. “Different’s good.”

“So?”

“We need to get him to change his name.”

“That’s it?” Aziraphale was sure Crowley was rolling his eyes.

“Mick Jagger, Janis Joplin, Curt Cobain. All had killer names.”

“Buddy Holly?”

“When you inspire modern rock and roll you can sound like a Christmas elf.” Crowley looked suspicious. “How do you know Buddy Holly?” 

“I liked the way he dressed.”

Crowley did something immature with his face. “You would.” 

The music got louder. 

It would be twenty years until Queen wrote their smash hit ‘Another One Bites the Dust,’ but until then, a lot of cool cats would be taking a mouthful.

Aziraphale squared his shoulders. “I think we should talk about the other day.”

“The offer’s still there.”

Aziraphale wrang his hands. “I’m an angel and you’re a demon. We cannot be caught fraternizing, let alone...we _can’t_.”

“I know you’ve been stuffed away in your bookshop, angel, but everyone’s fighting the system. We can leave this. We can leave _here_. Anywhere you’d like.” Crowley placed his hand over Aziraphale’s, which would have worked in any romantic film. Being a tragedy, it failed miserably. 

The angel searched Crowley’s face. Lines creased the demon’s forehead and his mouth was split in a thin seam. His sardonic wall had crumbled and left behind something naked and vulnerable.

Aziraphale patted the back of Crowley’s hand. “Everything fades with time.” He smiled. “Shall we?”

Crowley was quiet. He swallowed, then gave Aziraphale’s fingers a squeeze. “Our lucky day. Their equipment’s blown a circuit.” 

A scattering of sparks flew from one of the amps. The music stopped as the men scrambled to figure out what happened.

“Get off the stage!” a red-faced man heckled. He sloshed his beer in the air, gesturing wildly.

“We’ll be right back. Lovely to see you,” Davy giggled into the microphone.

“Follow my lead,” Crowley said and got out of the booth. “Oi, Davy!”

Musicians were two steps ahead of demons and one sideways hop above traveling salesmen. It didn’t take much to corrupt their souls. It was why all but two were now burning somewhere between purchasing and the marketing department. This didn’t mean all musicians were bad. They just inspired people to do bad things and _that_ was bad. And while rock stars railed against the wrongs they saw elsewhere, they all had their personal demons. It just happened to be the same one. 

This line of work was especially hard for Crowley, whose most mild of temptations could get somebody killed. He didn’t like it but at least he had Mick Jagger’s telephone number.

The man looked up. He had good cheekbones and weird eyes — the right a sky blue and the left dark brown, its pupil blown wide. “Hallo, there.”

Crowley, who also had good cheekbones and weird eyes, gaped. 

Aziraphale sidestepped his speechless counterpart. “Good evening, my good fellow. We heard your song.”

“Dreadful, wasn’t it?” Davy flashed them a crooked tooth smile, not the least bit fazed. He pointed to the belligerent man who was now snoozing in his beer. “He seemed to like it.”

“I’m sure you were just having a bad night, right Crowley?”

The garden had been thousands of years ago but temptation hadn’t changed. Crowley slithered towards the stage. “You know, he may have been right.” His voice took on a seductive hiss. “Can’t imagine going far with performances like that.”

“Not as performative as I’d like.” Davy was now sitting on the edge of the stage. “I’ve wanted to join the circus.”

Crowley hopped up next to him, resting his weight on his hands. “Can’t expect to be an artist with a name like Davy Jones, can you? Not very avant-garde.”

“No, I suppose not. I’ve always liked the idea of collecting personalities.”

“I changed my name. It wasn’t very _me_. You can do that you know, change yourself whenever you get bored.” Crowley snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

“Of course you are perfect just the way God made you.” Aziraphale beamed.

Crowley grit his teeth and Aziraphale shrank away.

“I don’t believe in God,” Davy said smoothly.

Aziraphale gasped and Crowley grinned. 

“That so?”

“I have a very minimal philosophy,” Davy explained. “I just love life.”

“Isn’t that wonderful, Aziraphale? He’s an implicit atheist.” Crowley smiled like a snake.

* * *

  
  


“He’s definitely one of yours,” Aziraphale huffed.

“I liked him.”

“Of course you liked him. You’re both heathens!”

They stood outside the tavern, looking out over the grassy moor. 

Crowley kicked a piece of gravel. It bounced and ricocheted into a murky puddle, plopping in with a single fat drop. “Be pretty funny if he got famous, wouldn’t it? ” He knew the angel’s buttons and he liked to poke.

“Absolutely not!” Aziraphale looked horrified. 

They looked at each other, one big one small. One fallen, the other divine.

Crowley took the angel’s chin between his fingers. The halogen light of the streetlamp reflected in his blue eyes. Crowley kissed him. Once. Twice. Then he gripped the back of his head because he realized that it wasn’t enough.

Aziraphale placed a hand on Crowley’s chest and his heart surged.

“I’m sorry for asking you to fall,” he murmured.

“That’s the point of you, isn’t it? To tempt, I mean.”

The hope popped like a balloon. “That’s not why I asked.”

Aziraphale’s smile was strained. “Yes, but it’s much easier to think of it as such.” He squeezed Crowley’s arm. “Goodnight, Crowley.”

The feelings that hurt the most are the most absurd. Loving an angel, an impossible thing, painted a painful landscape in the heart Crowley was not supposed to have. 

“Goodnight, angel.”

Crowley stood in the dark for a long time. 

“Got a fag on you?”

Crowley made an indiscreet gesture with his hand and a pack appeared.

“Cheers,” Davy said as Crowley handed him a cigarette. Davy cupped his hand over the butt of the stick and he flicked open his lighter. He tilted his head back and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Where’s your friend?” 

“Left.”

“Pity. I liked him.” He offered Crowley a cigarette. “You look like the cat’s whiskers.”

“Long night.” Crowley plucked it between two fingers. The end of it was already smoldering. “So, Davy. Figure out a name?”

“David.”

“Little close to Davy, isn’t it?”

“I’m going to have a good last name. I’m a creative person. When I was seventeen, I made a club for men who were being prosecuted for having long hair just for a laugh. Got on the BBC.”

Crowley dipped his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. “Are you a real person? Where are you from?” 

David smiled like a fiend. “Bromley. You?”

Crowley lifted his cigarette and pointed towards the sky. “Somewhere up there, originally.”

David blinked, mismatched eyes blown in the dark. “That’s an interesting song, isn’t it?” 

“What?”

“About a man from the stars.” 

Crowley’s throat felt thick.

“Is that your car?” David looked at the Bentley. 

“Yes,” Crowley replied because he didn’t know what else to say.

“You want to go somewhere?”

“Yes.”

David slotted their fingers together and they walked across the parking lot. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley just made that guy's whole career. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> This wasn't meant to be sad but I didn't know how else to get him to leave with David Bowie.


	2. Chapter 2

**1985**

“It really all comes down to Muppets,” Crowley said, brandishing his wine bottle. 

Davy Jones, who had wisely changed his name to David Bowie and went on to become one of the world’s most influential musicians of the 20th century, was rightly hesitant. “Muppets?”

“That’s what I said. Top you off?”

“Alcoholic.”

“Oh yeah.” Entirely Crowley's fault, too. “But think about it. It’s brilliant. A children’s film, but the entire audience wants to shag you.”

“Bit daft, isn’t it?” David blew out a stream of smoke

“It’s brilliant,” Crowley insisted. He loomed over the musician, jabbing a finger in his face. “Then you can tell Freddie Mercury to piss off for ruining my life.”

“You can tell him tonight if you’d like.” 

Crowley sank into the armchair. He blew a strand of hair out of his face. “Don’t think I won’t.”

Aziraphale eyed the thin plume of smoke curling from the butt of Mr. Bowie’s cigarette. He may be one of the world’s most recognizable humans but it was still _Aziraphale’s_ bookshop, where the only smoking you were allowed to do was through the front door and on the pavement.

“Now you’re all in a band?” Aziraphale’s musical knowledge went little beyond his record collection, the earliest of which was a 1950s compilation of Antonio Vivaldi.

As if he sensed the angel’s irritancy, the musician crushed the cigarette into an ashtray. “It’s a benefit concert. A few of us will sing and if we’re any good, people will phone in a few quid.”

“Surely you’ll be good,” Aziraphale said. “Have you not done this before?”

“To varying degrees of success,” he smiled. The laughter lines around his eyes didn’t make him look any less boyish. 

Keeping up with David Bowie was like juggling snowballs in hell. (Not because it was hot, just by principle; juggling was difficult and Aziraphale imagined the snowballs would fall apart.) Mr. Bowie could change his appearance almost as easily as they could. Out of curiosity and a dash of paranoia, Aziraphale had checked the records stashed in the private section of the bookshop. Turned out, he was just as human as the rest of the people he pushed out his front door. What Aziraphale found to be even worse was that there was nothing to dislike about the rock star. He was charming, witty, kind, and intelligent. Aziraphale hated when he had shown him an original copy of _As I Lay Dying_ by William Faulkner in the 70s. 

“One of my favorites,” he had said. “I had a feeling you liked books.”

Aziraphale couldn’t tell if it had been a joke or if he'd been high. It had been during the height of his cocaine addiction, something Crowley had nudged him into and happily participated in. Demons, of course, didn’t have to worry about drugs.

Aziraphale’s guts twisted at the idea of a talented and famous millionaire most likely being in love with Crowley. It had been twenty years since they had started...being around each other. Surely one of them had caught something.

Crowley lifted his head, swaying in his seat. “And I’m going to...what was I going to do?” 

“Punch Freddie Mercury in the face.” Mr. Bowie reminded him. In many ways, he looked like Crowley. With their angular faces, rail thin build, and supernatural eyes, they made an uncanny pair.

The angel touched his own pudgy cheek before forcing himself to brighten. “Isn’t it such a nice thing they’re doing, Crowley?” 

“Mmm. You’re a bloody saint.” Crowley raised his bottle before getting to his feet. “Aziraphale, tell David Jones he’s a saint.”

“That’s a bit of a tall order. There’s a whole process and he hasn’t even _died_ yet **_—_** ” 

“You’re a saint and I can’t stand it.” Crowley drained the last dregs from the bottle. “I miss the seventies.” He kissed Mr. Bowie on the head. 

“I thought you hated the seventies?”

The wily smile made Aziraphale decide that he needed to check his records again

“I don’t hate the _seventies_!” A hot bubble of rage was boiling beneath Crowley’s skin. “I hate 9th September 1974! ”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, love.”

“You,” **_—_** Crowley pointed a finger in front of his nose **_—_** “ _bastard!_ ”

“What did he do?” Aziraphale initially hadn’t been keen on involving himself in a lover’s spat, but he couldn’t help but wonder what had drawn Crowley to such a fury.

Crowley looked at the angel. “He.. _.he_ dedicated a song to me at a concert!”

“Why, that seems lovely.” 

Crowley ripped his glasses from his face. “It most certainly is not! Tell him what you did!”

An apex to a bad quarrel typically includes screaming and crying. Some of the worst kinds end in bitter silence stretching until the two part ways or go to bed. Mr. Bowie had done the exact same thing but not at all, instead inspecting the bookshelves.

“I sang a song and the crowd loved it. That doesn’t make it about you.” He pointed to a book, careful not to touch. “This is _not_ for purchase?”

Aziraphale waffled. “Technically, it is.”

“Right, then.” He moved on. He was infuriatingly considerate.

“It was the performance!” Crowley rallied. “He knows how much I hate _Hamlet_!” 

They were like two atoms moving under heat. “What are you talking about?” Aziraphale begged.

"Oh, and don't pretend you didn't know how good you looked!" 

Mr. Bowie shrugged on a powder blue suit jacket that made his shoulders look razor sharp. “I have to go. Are you coming?”

“ _I have to go, are you coming?_ ” Crowley parroted under his breath before grabbing his own jacket.

Mr. Bowie by now had his sunglasses on, but he tipped them down as he leaned an elbow over the counter. His brown and blue eyes were gleaming.

Aziraphale leaned in, unable to keep his gaze away from the one blown pupil.

“I snogged poor, dear Yorick.” He pushed the glasses up and headed out. There was a brief period of shrieks and flashing lights before the door snapped closed.

Crowley spoke quickly. “I’m going to cut Paul McCartney’s microphone and I swear to Satan, if he does anything to mess that up, I’m going to break up with him and make him look like a complete arsehole!” He dashed into the throng of fans, his face almost as well-known by now, and slammed the door.

“Well, I still have you all,” Aziraphale said to his books. The books said nothing, as they often did in situations such as this.

Aziraphale settled behind his desk, where he had left a cold cup of tea and a first edition of _Paradise Lost_. He snapped on a pair of surgical gloves and flipped to the title page. In crooked scrawl John Milton wrote, ‘To my dearest friend Aziraphale, you get rather talkative when you are drunk. May this story do your tale justice.’ 

It didn’t, but Aziraphale loved it all the same.

The book was well-intact except for the back, where the supple leather binding became imbued with a powdery residue. 

“Oh, Mr. Bowie.” 

Aziraphale was not familiar with the chemical compounds of cocaine or its shelf life. By his best estimate, he was safe from harm. He miracled a surgeon’s mask and got to work. 

Maybe he still had a chance.

* * *

_"When McCartney launched into “Let It Be,” his microphone went dead and the vast majority of the Wembley crowd couldn’t hear a thing...they let out a roar of joy about two minutes in when the sound finally kicks in._

_Near the end, Bob Geldof walks out with David Bowie, Pete Townshend, and Yaz’s Alison Moyet to sing a reprise of the song for the fans who missed the beginning. Bowie starts singing the wrong verse...but he quickly corrects himself."_

\- "The Rolling Stone" 2020

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, the angel has to get him.
> 
> I truly don't know how active this fandom is anymore, but I've always wanted to add to this story because a Crowley/David Bowie relationship can explain so many canonical things David has done over the years. His ["Cracked Actor"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UkIwJxXcvz4) performance, the Paul McCartney fiasco, his _Young Americans_ soul album... they've haunted me ever since I wrote the first chapter and I knew I had to include some of it. I was happy to see that I wasn't the only one who found this pairing so interesting!
> 
> [professor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/professor/pseuds/professor) made a comment in the previous chapter about Crowley suggesting the idea of Labyrinth and it was too perfect and funny not to use.
> 
> Thank you for reading. I hope everyone's safe and healthy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When the angel gets the demon.

** 2016 **

Crowley _hated_ Leeds, just like he hated the phrase “the grass was always greener” – it was quite easy to give lip service to when you didn’t have real problems. Not only did Leeds have too much grass, but he found the phrase to be bollocks.

The vinyl beneath him was cracked and the grime on the table was no longer there for charm. Fifty-one years had made the tavern a grim affair, or maybe he was just too depressed. Even the jukebox in the corner, a relic of a better time, jutted out from the floor like a rotten tooth.

“Guh.” Crowley thumped his head against the table. “You know there are other artists you can choose from!” he called as another person left the box.

A man in his mid-twenties looked at Crowley as if he were a bad smell. “Somebody died today. People are mourning.”

“Sorry. Didn’t think of that,” Crowley said from against the table.

He waited there a long time, forced to hear the same ethereal, familiar voice permeate the dingy pub. Crowley always wondered how David could sound so otherworldly, being a human and all. He had asked him once, and he admitted he hated his voice – only sang because no one liked his songs.

The bastard.

The cushion dipped and Crowley looked up, surely seeming a right mess. The vice that had been crushing his ribs lessened a bit when a man (or an angel morphed into man-shaped being, to be precise) in a three-piece suit shimmied in next to him.

“I honestly don’t know why you keep insisting on meeting here. I haven’t seen a place so filthy since fourteenth-century London.” Aziraphale took a break in his chastising. “Good Heavens, are you all right?”

“My closest friend died today.” Crowley feared to take off his glasses.

“You don’t have any other friends.”

“I’m _more_ than aware.”

Aziraphale tussled with his fight or flight reflex. The logical side of his brain, the one he liked to think was the largest, told him that this was his fault. The other, more stupid side told him to dash off.

Aziraphale sighed and remembered what they had taught him in Heaven. He smiled. “‘Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you.’”

“No! Do not start with your angel hocus pocus!”

“It was a Bible verse! It’s supposed to be…comforting.”

The demon looked at his lap, sullener than before. “Hadn’t spoken to him in thirty-one years and I feel like my heart’s stopped.”

“Your heart doesn’t technically need to beat, Crowley.”

“Why are you even here?”

“Because you asked me to be!”

“Oh, yeah,” Crowley said. He raised a hand. “Bartender! Two…whatever and whatevers! The one with the numbers!”

“You need to keep it together,” Aziraphale said desperately, making sure to keep his voice down. “A demon who acts like this can cause catastrophic harm!”

“Already happened,” said Crowley. “Great Plague of Marseille, completely my fault.”

Two seven and sevens were placed in front of them.

“That was _you_?”

Unlike other unearthly beings, Crowley enjoyed mundane human experiences.

“Yu- _p_.” Crowley fished for his straw with his forked tongue. “Used my demonic charm to convince the captain to dock so I could use a real bathroom. Guess the ship had infected fleas or something. Anyway, plague spread like a wildfire. Utter disaster. Got out of there right quick.”

Aziraphale tried his drink. It was sweet and completely unsophisticated; absolutely no one was to know that he liked it. He changed the subject. “Did you know he was going to pass?”

“Nobody told me anything.”

“Absolute silence on my end,” Aziraphale added quickly under Crowley’s glare. “I do wonder as to why you are so affected since it was just a …” he struggled. “Such a blip in your lifespan.”

“In human years, it’s a long time.” Crowley pointed to the jukebox. “I’ve tried not to listen to a single David Jo- _Bowie_ song since our meeting, but today I’ve sat here for hours and listened to my entire _life_ with him.”

“Are they at least good songs?”

“That’s not the point, angel!”

“What is the point!?”

“The point is that I’m sad and absolutely _nobody_ cares!”

On paper, Crowley was not wrong. Aziraphale had clear orders about Armageddon and they did not include friendship with a demon. He made sure to adhere to that rule, only flipping it over and allowing himself to indulge in lunch dates and walks through the park with his supposed arch-nemesis.

Falling in love with Crowley had been so easy; it was admitting that he had done so that had been torturous. All of the universes had convened into a tiny speck and exploded again, and he buried it beneath principle. Aziraphale admonished Crowley in the sixties and he had since seen the demon on the cover of tabloids, strolling into Studio 54 with the world’s secular glam god and stealing kisses between his own bookshelves.

Giving a mile would be a disaster, but perhaps an inch would do.

He moved closer. “I consider your feelings with great care, my dear, even outside of the Arrangement 2.0.”

In the dim light, Crowley did not care about his sunglasses and tossed them aside. He blinked; his eyes would have been comically black if his face weren’t so flush. He rubbed at them. “Once you start hearing everything, you get curious. He put out an album two days before he died.”

“He was always theatric.” Aziraphale tried to laugh.

“The lead track,” Crowley took his time in speaking, “I think…is about me.”

“Come on now. Even I know he’s been in a wonderful marriage –”

The demon turned to Aziraphale.

“No,” he murmured. “Not like that. It was as if he were saying goodbye or mourning about how we ended. Or – or telling me I’m…good. Critics are calling it a ‘vocal prayer’ A cheeky ponce ‘til the end!”

“Bit egotistical to think it’s about you, isn’t it?”

“He mentions a fallen angel that talks big.”

"He knows about you?"

"Figured it out."

“Oh, my.”

“Yeah _‘oh my.’_ ” Crowley looked away and buried his head beneath his hands. "'Villa of _Ormen_..." he muttered.

Maybe he could turn into a snake and live in the Epping Forest. Did England have a suitable climate for snakes? He could scare tourists. That’d be funny. But what would he do with his car —?

“Crowley!”

The demon, who had already been three quarters into his moving plan, stopped.

Aziraphale pried Crowley’s fingers out of his hair. He held them like he would a small bird.

“Humans die. You know that, and that’s why you and I have historically kept to…you and I. But that doesn’t mean that blip wasn’t important. To the both of you.”

Crowley had only cared about two individuals, and while they were wildly different, they were also the same. However, the universe has a funny way of letting you know how important differences are. It first happened by a garden on day Zero of earth. Since the universe also has a sense of humor, the second was in another in New York, 1973.

Crowley took Aziraphale’s face in his hands. It was rounder than what he was accustomed to.

He garbled some nonsense, then swallowed. “Only you could blow my insides to bits like that – a real insider’s job.”

“What?”

“We were taught that angels were mindless, obedient beings. I’m in Hell because I can think for myself. _I’m_ the smart one. Yet I’m on that wall not for five minutes and you toss your sword.”

“I didn’t _toss it_ ,” – the angel was getting huffy – “the humans needed it more than I!” Aziraphale wilted. “Either way, they gave me one job and I couldn’t even do that right.”

“No! You were brave and absolutely terrified for being so!” Crowley paused. “Very funny thinking back on it.”

“Why does this matter?”

“It matters because I’ve loved you from that second on –”

The angel had been aware that his enemy loved him, just as most people would be aware of a man screaming outside of their bedroom window every night. Six millennia was a decent amount of time to get a read on another man – or man-shaped being. Of course, Crowley had hinted at it, daring to ditch the Arrangement and the Authorities to just be _them_. Aziraphale liked to think he had gotten a good grasp on human body language, and you didn’t kiss someone that was just a nothing.

“— no matter how many times you’ve scorned me or wore clothes at least a century out of date!”

“What?” That was a surprise.

“You’d be amazed at the state of your wardrobe. I’m honestly embarrassed to be seen with you half the time.”

“No!” Aziraphale pushed Crowley away. “You’ve felt like this since –?”

“The dawn of time? Yeah.”

The angel was calculating in his head. “That is a terribly long time.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been having my fun. It’s not like I’ve been cooped up in my flat listening to ‘So Far Away.’”

“I know, dear.”

Crowley picked up his drink. He didn’t seem to mind when the whole occupancy of the tavern turned as he took a slurp. “Just know that thing was an…important thing with an important person. He just wasn’t you.”

Music played. It was a weird feeling, the kind you had when a famous ex-boyfriend you had really gotten on with had a good voice and the world played it over and over again on the day he died. It felt invasive. Crowley didn’t like it.

“I am very sorry.” Aziraphale meant it.

Crowley stretched. “He of all people wouldn’t want me to wallow.”

Aziraphale, who knew better, touched his hand.

“Thank you.” Crowley looked at the hand over his. “Last time we were holding hands here, you told me to bugger off,” he said.

“It was really my mistake.”

“Did I say it wasn’t?”

“But what about the Authorities?”

“We’ll tell them to bugger off.”

Fifty-one years ago, Aziraphale had left Crowley at the tavern, standing alone beneath a streetlamp. Due to this, Crowley thought he must have dreamed this to life, but the fingers that locked with his felt very real. The flutter in his chest, although not supposed to be there, quickened. Then, their lips met, and six thousand years halted. His brain, supposedly big and celestial, grided to a stupid halt.

He was sneaky and kept his eyes partially open, both to see his angel and to make sure he wasn’t going to melt into something more snake-like, as he couldn’t feel his limbs.

Aziraphale smelt awful, like mold and whatever else he used to make his bookshop unbearable to customers, which was fine because Crowley had become used to something like ammonia and baking soda throughout the seventies. By the time their mouths were opened, he was halfway in Aziraphale’s lap.

He mumbled something stupid that was either “erfghu” or “I love you.”

Either way, the angel replied, albeit breathlessly: “I feel the same.”

They left the pub holding hands. The Bentley unlocked automatically since it knew better and they slid inside.

“I have a fear that you’ll find me boring.” Aziraphale stuck a hand against the window as they swerved out of the parking lot in a perfect ski.

“What I wouldn’t give for a big slice of boring. Absolute favorite thing is boring.”

They shot down the countryside. Cows and buildings looked like swipes of paint an artist left on a blank canvas before he got up and screamed because he was going three times the speed limit.

Crowley kissed the back of Aziraphale’s hand. “I need to slow down if that’s all right, metaphorically speaking. Or is that an allegory?” A person crossing the street was zapped to the next lane.

“It’s unfortunately a metaphor.” Aziraphale wailed.

Crowley had let go of the wheel and was patting himself down. “Angel, have you seen my phone?”

“I can’t see anything, dear.”

“Blasted thing.”

“Oh, no. I have it.” Aziraphale took it from one of his pockets.

“Put something on.”

Aziraphale was behind musical technology by 1,029 years. He fumbled with the tap screen buttons and the streaming service overwhelmed him. However, one thing caught his attention:

“Do Not Play Under ANY Circumstances”

It was a list of nine songs presumably comprised by Crowley, all of which were written by Mr. Bowie. They had to be about him, which Aziraphale felt to be very poignant considering the day.

They were no longer in a dingy pub and Crowley had made his peace, so he decided that maybe today would be the right circumstance.

He blindly hit “Velvet Goldmine.”

There was a brief period when Crowley did nothing but clutch the steering wheel, mouth unhinged. A disturbing sound was coming from his mouth, not unlike a death rattle. Aziraphale had seen the same symptoms among the soldiers of World War II. The doctors had called it “shellshock.” 

Crowley choked, then snatched the phone. It burst into flames and he hurled it out the window. He ignored Aziraphale’s horrified face.

“Oh look, it needed an update.”

** 1973 **

It was a writhing mass of sequins and velour. The chaos and joy were borderline stereotypical: women danced freely while bystanders partook in the myriad of drugs that cluttered the furniture, tiny mirrors shining like a dusty disco ball. Crowley swaggered through the crowd like the reptile that he was, holding a wineglass aloft as “The Velvet Underground’s” _Foggy Notion_ wailed from the speakers.

He was so happy.

Nobody knew the demonic hand that had crafted such a bash. Crowley had the idea when he had been summoned to Hell for a mandatory office party. Even the stuffiest pencil pusher would agree that they were a nightmare – and humans were not even forced to sing “Happy Birthday” for four days straight. On the second day, Crowley left and tricked The Beatles into attending a garden party.

“Do you think this is what Neil had in mind when he booked a get together at the Plaza?” he sat down on the only available chair left in the room.

“I can’t hear you!”

Crowley raised his voice, “Do you think this is what Neil had in mind when he booked a get together at the Plaza?”

David tugged at his ear.

“I _said_ ,” Crowley shouted, “do you think this is what Neil had in mind –” but he stopped at the other’s laughter. “You were having a laugh!”

“It’s a very easy thing to do. I’m surprised more people don’t get in on it.”

Crowley could have taken the argument further, but he was sitting in the musician’s lap, one arm draped around his shoulders with the glass of wine teetering in his grip.

“I don’t like your tricks. Or sense of humor.” He took a drink.

“Why not?”

“Because I fall for them. That’s not how it’s supposed to work.”

“I don’t know what that means.” David sniffed and wiped beneath his nose. Below Crowley, he was shaking like a leaf.

Since he liked earth and was lazy, Crowley took a more innocuous approach with his temptations. He would pat himself on the back whenever a window fan blew hot air or a woman was yanked back by her phone cord. However, even his mildest temptation made David act like he was driving in the Formula 1 with the pedal to the floor.

Crowley had only given him a tiny nudge before the party.

At least he let his eyebrows grow back, Crowley thought. They were a shocking orange, just like the mullet David somehow made look good. A beaded earring that deserved to be hung from the ceiling adorned his right ear. Even the absurd pattern of his jacket that clashed with his tie was perfect.

“How’s the baby?”

David looked down. His laugh was wispy and bashful. “Says hello. Demanded to meet you.”

“They can do that when they’re two?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

For a man who played in front of thousands, he could be incredibly shy. It was sweet. Crowley had liked shyness for a very, very long time.

“You should probably eat something.” Crowley had a limited grasp on cocaine and what it did to a person’s body. Contrary to popular belief, he’d done it several times and found that it wasn’t to his taste. No one had noticed when he zapped it out of his system.

He felt a nip on his shoulder and he dropped his wineglass. “I didn’t mean me!”

“Sorry, got carried away.”

They watched Mick Jagger gavotte his way into the middle of the makeshift dance floor.

“Have you ever thought about the end of the world?”

If possible, Crowley would have dropped his wineglass again. “What?” Surely, he hadn’t let anything slip about Armageddon. He had been far too busy partying while inebriated beyond belief to even bring it up –

If he just left, there was a chance everybody would think he had been nothing more than a coke-addled dream.

David’s words were often thoughtful when they weren’t funny. He had once told Crowley he could have been a librarian, but he liked sex and drugs too much.

“I’ve been reading ‘Vile Bodies’ by Evelyn Waugh. It’s a book filled with narcissistic socialites with no real problems. It ends with Britain declaring war.” He looked at the demon, seeming sober for the first time that night. “For people this rich, the apocalypse is losing all of this.”

They watched the party. Chaos had ensued in its purest form as someone uncorked a champagne bottle and spewed it over the crowd. Mick Ronson smoked a joint in the corner, watching as Keith Moon inhaled another line.

“If you think this is pointless narcissism, then why do you do it?” Crowley said.

“Because I got an invitation.”

David was smiling again, unable to decide what to do with his hand: biting his cuticles, pulling at his lip, rubbing his cheek. Crowley put it to the nape of his own neck and kissed him.

Kissing Davy Jones had been something tentative and exploratory. Crowley had been opening the red chambers of the young man’s heart, discovering who he was and digging out his buried vices. Kissing David Bowie was igniting a primal passion that made him feel aflame again. They were alive at that moment, but even as a demon, Crowley didn’t know what happened when a flame burnt out.

“Do you want to leave? I’m finding this dull,” David asked against Crowley’s mouth. He kissed the tattoo next to his ear.

“You find this dull?” Crowley’s voice cracked.

“Just them.” 

Crowley cleared his throat and straightened any stray hairs. (He’d noticed Jagger had stolen his haircut.) “I’m sure they have a garden or something.”

The courtyard was one of the greatest unkept secrets of The Plaza simply because it was such an annoyance to find. How many people were willing to meander through a massive hotel just to find a garden? Very little.

There were no clucking pheasants or wild bushes of lipstick pink peonies. Humans liked to keep their gardens orderly and maintained. A large fountain almost blocked out the lawn of flowers boxed in by concrete. Crowley supposed he created his own disappointment, expecting something from myth or a memory.

“Don’t see what all the fuss is about,” he mumbled. There was a silence that stretched, then a giggle.

“Sorry. I’m immensely glitzed right now.”

“Glitzed?”

“Blitzed’ but the glam rock version.” 

Crowley smiled.

“Your friend at the magical bookshop’s in love with you, by the way,” David said.

Crowley faced the musician. With David’s platform shoes, they were the same height. “What do you mean ‘ _magical_ ’?”

“Is it not?”

“Yes,” Crowley fumbled, “in a way. But how do you know?”

“I don’t walk into a hospital and not know it’s a hospital, do I?”

“No, I suppose not.” They looked at the fountain for a short while before Crowley rounded on him again. “What do you mean he’s _in love_ with me?”

“Ask him.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

He was so earnest that it was infuriating. Crowley kicked at the pavement. “We didn’t…end well.”

Another sniff. “That’s a shame. I do like you very much, though, and I like a lot of people.”

When had Crowley’s life become such a blur? Even his Bentley couldn’t catch up to the drug-infused parties, prestigious clubs, and the hoard of hands that grabbed at his coat as he followed one of the most desired men into a car. It was like sitting back and watching a movie on fast-forward; it was sexy. He liked it.

Aziraphale had said he was too fast for him. Was he just speeding through a yellow light?

“I like you, too.” Of course, Crowley was still very much a demon and had every intention of causing a bit of a ruckus. “Ever thought of killing Ziggy in front of a live audience?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming to the end of such an odd love triangle. If it was an actual pair I could write "Crowlie" forever. However, some are meant to be.
> 
> "Ormen," a lyric mentioned in the song "Blackstar" (The song our Crowley is referring to in the beginning) means "serpent" in Norweigian and was talked about by the occultist Aleister Crowley. 
> 
> The party is loosely based on the "Death of Ziggy" party, which, along with Bowie's reading of "Vile Bodies" inspired the song "Watch that Man." You should listen to it under NO circumstances.
> 
> I'm [here](https://thinwhitedelight.tumblr.com/) for the music stuff and [here](https://redwine-house.tumblr.com/) for all the other bits.

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley just made that guy's whole career. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> This wasn't meant to be sad but I didn't know how else to get him to leave with David Bowie.


End file.
